Back in what now feels like a hundred years ago, I let someone make me feel like I wasn't worthy of love. I thought at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I was doomed to live as my grandmother and die alone and bitter.
I fought it for a while, still wanting what I thought I deserved. After some time, it seemed inevitable and I accepted my fate in being alone. And because I believed my destiny so intensely, when a man did show interest, I missed it. It took an intervention, some creative scheduling, and a lot of determination on his part to make the pieces fit.
On a Wednesday, thirteen years ago, I became his wife. No fancy clothes were purchased. No band played our song. We didn't have an elaborate cake to shove in each other's face. We simply walked up to the court house at our appointed time, paid a small fee, and the whole thing was over in less than thirty minutes.
For a while, it made me sad, going to the courthouse. Not having the memories of that one day to look back on. No photographs or other mementos to dust off every so often. But a wedding isn't what makes a marriage. It's the work that two people put into it. And as I've been told all of my life, anything worth having is worth working for.
One thing is for certain, we work hard. Some days we work really hard.
Statistically, we should have divorced years ago. The truth of the matter is that we genuinely like each other. We enjoy being together. We respect each other. And we don’t believe in 50/50. Our relationship is more 60/40, always giving more than we take.
Thirteen years ago, a confirmed bachelor and potential spinster chose forever. Quite literally through the good times and bad, richer and [always] poorer, thick and thin, we have stood together, always strong. Never wavering, never considering the alternative.
I can’t believe it’s only been thirteen years. I am so lucky.